Late on a Thursday night in Woodland Hills, California, the recessed lights of the Maserati Auto Gallery spotlight a gaggle of sleek, luxury automobiles; like carbon fiber and plexiglass statues standing in relief, their muscled torsos gleaming, they show off their voluptuous curves, bold coloring, and clean, sharp lines. Masterpieces of human ingenuity these works of art demand to be ogled, to be gazed at, and above all else, to be seen.
In the foreground like in a soothing mural of a city at sleep there’s a man, but he’s not made of paint. Seemingly oblivious to the world — just as the world is to him — the man is sprawled on a bus stop bench. He lies so close to the Maseratis that their cool light refracts off of the storefront glass, illuminating the remaining white of his soiled, tattered shoes.